Bruce Weber American, b. 29/3/1946

The rear door of a red Mercedes stands open and two people are tangled together across the back seat, half out of it. One pair of bare legs comes out over the sill in lilac socks and tan boots. Another leg, in khaki shorts pushed up, is drawn back inside. A hand rests flat on a thigh. Neither face is anywhere in the frame. On the tarmac below, dropped where they came off: red Converse, black Converse, a heap of trousers with a striped belt still threaded through, a canvas bag, some loose papers.

The pile on the ground carries the story. Four separate acts of undressing happened here, all of them in a hurry, and all of them are legible in the way the things landed. Weber has framed it so that the parked car takes the top half and the discarded clothing takes the bottom, and the people are the narrow band in between, mostly legs.

It is a photograph about a car park, which is the least romantic place in America and the one where a great deal of American romance has historically happened. Everything expensive in the frame is in perfect condition and completely beside the point: the paintwork, the alloy wheel, the chrome trim, all of it immaculate and all of it upstaged by a pair of trainers lying on their sides.